Choose your own adventure: The home game
I was trying to cheer up a friend who had received some depressing news about a job he had wanted. He felt powerless and overwhelmed. Just defeated. I tried to be upbeat, offer ideas, and encourage him to try again. He kept shooting my ideas down, and just generally deciding to accept failure as a constant. He finally said something made me snap. I hate it when people say things like this to me.
"I'm not like you. I don't just get up and do things!"
Why not, dammit?
I lit into him like chicken on a June bug.
I told him I don't just do anything. I chose to. I chose to find things to do. I chose to get out. I choose every damn day. I am not the same person I was a year ago. Hell, I am nowhere near the person I was five years ago or ten years ago. I don't even recognize the person I was in my 20s. I have created the person I wanted to be.
No one bursts out of the gate and just becomes who they want to be. The only difference between you and the person who has the job/life/skills you want is the million little steps they took to get there. It isn't magic or some great secret. It is getting up every day and chipping away at whatever project you CHOOSE!
I wanted to write a blog called "Embrace the Suck", but I'm just going to include my thoughts on it here.
Any time I start something new, I approach it with profound humility. I know I'm going to suck at it. I know I'm going to flail, flop, and fail multiple times in the process. All I can do is laugh at myself. Right now, my nemesis is backward somersaults in jujitsu class.
When we warm up, sometimes we are in staggered lines, and straight up do calisthenics: jumping jacks, squats, push-ups, and various crunches while counting military style. (Shouting in unison)
And sometimes we form two lines, and our sensei shouts, "Go!", then we do one exercise across the mat. This always takes me to a bad place. I'm falling behind the person in front of me, and the people behind me are jammed up, waiting for me to get my ass out of the way.
Now, everyone in my class has always been super nice, this is my head and my thoughts shaming me while I struggle. I feel like a panda bear hanging out with a bunch of snow leopards. Yeah, we're all black and white, but you can tell the apex hunters versus the bamboo munchers. My struggle with backwards somersaults are my Kung Fu-esque lesson in humility and perseverance.
I suck at them.
I mean YouTube worthy suck.
The general idea is from a standing position I sit down towards my heels, gracefully rolling onto my ample buttocks, while keeping my chin tucked to avoid neck injury, after I rolled to my shoulders I slap my arms flat onto the ground, while using my abs to swing my lower body and legs over my head to land on my toes, using my arms to push me to my feet again.
Yeah, right.
What usually happens is I fall backwards, squeak when my back hits the mat, usually slap my arms too early too give myself adequate propulsion to get my ass over my head, and roll sideways like a broken weeble-wobble. Then I turn on my hands and knees, stand up, and complete the whole travesty to dignity all over again 10+ times across the mat. I often wonder if it actually physically pains my teacher to watch me squeak, sweat, and breathlessly curse my way across the mat. It kills me every time.
But I know one of these days I'll do it. It maybe the millionth and one time I've attempted it, but statistically it it going to happen. All I have to do is persevere.
I wrote a poem called "I remember" years ago. It was my way of reminding myself that every day I was one step further away from the girl I was in my mid-20s. I lived in a hoarder style nasty apartment, delivering pizzas on a night shift, physically and emotionally weak, severely obese, and sleeping on a bare mattress on the floor under a dirty comforter. I remember her, because I never want to be her again.
10/14/2011
I Remember…
I remember who I was….
The bare mattress, no sheets and a torn blanket
Three piles of laundry on the floor.
One filthy, one acceptable, one “clean”—
The kitchen that moved when the light came on.
Oh yes, I remember who I was…
Slothful
Sleazy
Solitude of my cell-like boudoir.
The memory still haunts me—empty of furniture,
Empty of pictures, empty of hope.
Dark
Dank
Dusty
Destitute dungeon of a house.
My Life, My Prison, My Madness
Is a black and white photo from my past.
It happened when I wasn’t me.
Oh yes…
I remember who I was,
and who I will never be
again.
"I'm not like you. I don't just get up and do things!"
Why not, dammit?
I lit into him like chicken on a June bug.
I told him I don't just do anything. I chose to. I chose to find things to do. I chose to get out. I choose every damn day. I am not the same person I was a year ago. Hell, I am nowhere near the person I was five years ago or ten years ago. I don't even recognize the person I was in my 20s. I have created the person I wanted to be.
No one bursts out of the gate and just becomes who they want to be. The only difference between you and the person who has the job/life/skills you want is the million little steps they took to get there. It isn't magic or some great secret. It is getting up every day and chipping away at whatever project you CHOOSE!
I wanted to write a blog called "Embrace the Suck", but I'm just going to include my thoughts on it here.
Any time I start something new, I approach it with profound humility. I know I'm going to suck at it. I know I'm going to flail, flop, and fail multiple times in the process. All I can do is laugh at myself. Right now, my nemesis is backward somersaults in jujitsu class.
When we warm up, sometimes we are in staggered lines, and straight up do calisthenics: jumping jacks, squats, push-ups, and various crunches while counting military style. (Shouting in unison)
And sometimes we form two lines, and our sensei shouts, "Go!", then we do one exercise across the mat. This always takes me to a bad place. I'm falling behind the person in front of me, and the people behind me are jammed up, waiting for me to get my ass out of the way.
Now, everyone in my class has always been super nice, this is my head and my thoughts shaming me while I struggle. I feel like a panda bear hanging out with a bunch of snow leopards. Yeah, we're all black and white, but you can tell the apex hunters versus the bamboo munchers. My struggle with backwards somersaults are my Kung Fu-esque lesson in humility and perseverance.
I suck at them.
I mean YouTube worthy suck.
The general idea is from a standing position I sit down towards my heels, gracefully rolling onto my ample buttocks, while keeping my chin tucked to avoid neck injury, after I rolled to my shoulders I slap my arms flat onto the ground, while using my abs to swing my lower body and legs over my head to land on my toes, using my arms to push me to my feet again.
Yeah, right.
What usually happens is I fall backwards, squeak when my back hits the mat, usually slap my arms too early too give myself adequate propulsion to get my ass over my head, and roll sideways like a broken weeble-wobble. Then I turn on my hands and knees, stand up, and complete the whole travesty to dignity all over again 10+ times across the mat. I often wonder if it actually physically pains my teacher to watch me squeak, sweat, and breathlessly curse my way across the mat. It kills me every time.
But I know one of these days I'll do it. It maybe the millionth and one time I've attempted it, but statistically it it going to happen. All I have to do is persevere.
I wrote a poem called "I remember" years ago. It was my way of reminding myself that every day I was one step further away from the girl I was in my mid-20s. I lived in a hoarder style nasty apartment, delivering pizzas on a night shift, physically and emotionally weak, severely obese, and sleeping on a bare mattress on the floor under a dirty comforter. I remember her, because I never want to be her again.
10/14/2011
I Remember…
I remember who I was….
The bare mattress, no sheets and a torn blanket
Three piles of laundry on the floor.
One filthy, one acceptable, one “clean”—
The kitchen that moved when the light came on.
Oh yes, I remember who I was…
Slothful
Sleazy
Solitude of my cell-like boudoir.
The memory still haunts me—empty of furniture,
Empty of pictures, empty of hope.
Dark
Dank
Dusty
Destitute dungeon of a house.
My Life, My Prison, My Madness
Is a black and white photo from my past.
It happened when I wasn’t me.
Oh yes…
I remember who I was,
and who I will never be
again.
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